


Flightless Dog

by Rymdunge



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dog!Martin, Gen, Vague Hocus Pocus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rymdunge/pseuds/Rymdunge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin has been a dog for a long time (he couldn't give you an exact number, him being a dog and all). He hasn't lost his love for flying, and can't resist the temptation to stay at a small airfield to watch the planes, where he's found by a certain airdot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a really long time ago, and I can't remember if it was based on a prompt or not...

It is horrible, if you really think about it, but, sometimes Martin forgets that he once was human. Only for short moments, when there’s a lot of other things occupying his mind (like finding food, or hiding from sadistic teens, or fleeing from angry cats). The first few times it happened, he found himself paralysed by fear and grief, that only grew worse when he remembered that he couldn’t even cry about it.

A lot of time has passed since then. He has tried to remember how many winters, but the numbers fades with time – keeping track of years isn’t really his first priority, after all – the same way that the pain of his loss has faded into a numb, distant thing. Now he only sighs (for he can still sigh, at least) when he realises that he had forgotten his previous life for a moment.

It’s cold and dark and wet and windy and it might be October, but he wouldn’t know. The air rumbles with sound and it would have been painful for his sensitive ears, hadn’t it been such a beautiful thing. The plane (old, and white with blue details), bathe in rainwater, glistens in all the lights of around it. She sweeps down gracefully and hits the tarmac as softly as the May flies caresses the limpid lakes in the evening, and Martin wags his tail in approval.

He’s only been here for about a week, but he wishes to stay forever. Even if he’ll never be able to fulfil his old dream, at least he’d be able to watch as others lived it for him. Sadly, there’s very little food here, and he imagines that the personal would have some objections to a dirty, homeless dog loitering about their airport. Soon, he’ll have to leave again.

He shakes his head (and whole body), water droplets flying in all directions and hanging ears flapping to and through. No point thinking about what may (will) come; thinking about the future makes his head hurt. There are so very few things to enjoy in this body. Food is always scarce, and what what little there is is mostly disgusting. The days are either dull and eventless or filled with terror and pain. And there’s no one to talk to; he’s still got the mind of a human, and can’t really relate to ‘other’ dogs.

”Oh! Hello, doggie!”

”Arthur, don’t touch that! It’s filthy!”

Martin is so caught up in his own self-pitying thoughts that he doesn’t get a chance to flee before he’s scooped into the air by arms clad in pink, and held against a warm chest that smells of tea and digestives. He yelps, and wriggles a bit.

”But, mum, he’s adorable! Look at his little nose!” A slightly rough finger pokes Martin’s nose and he sneezes with indignation. ”Douglas, look! Isn’t he cute?”

”I’m sorry, I can’t really tell through all that mud,” a dry, lazy voice says.

”Oh, he just needs a bath.” The one holding Martin – Arthur – walks up to the two others. ”Can we keep him, mum?”

”Absolutely not!” the woman exclaims. ”I’m not letting some dirty mutt anywhere near my dog!” She’s the shortest of the three, but she still manages to feel imposing (especially to someone of Martin’s modest size). Her sent is one of rose-scented soap and paper. Now that he thinks about it, both she and the man holding him smell of dog.

”Oh, I’m sure Snoopadoop’s going to like him, mum!”

The older man lets out a loud snort. ”Snoopadoop?”

”Not one word, Douglas,” the woman says through gritted teeth. She turns to Arthur, and her voice grows a little softer. ”I’m sorry, Arthur, but we really can’t keep it.”

”We could keep him on GERTI! He could be MJN’s flying-mascot!” Martin’s interest peaks at the prospect of getting to fly, even though he vaguely remembers something about that not being possible.

The woman speaks, sounding like she’s talking to a child. To be fair, the man holding Martin does sound very much like a child. ”Arthur, we can’t bring a dog with us when we fly. That would be illegal,” Ah, yes, that’s why! He remember remembering having learned about that at some point.

”Also annoying,” Douglas says. Martin growls at that.

”Aww, Douglas! You hurt his feelings!”

”My apologies,” Douglas doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

”So, what should we do with him?”

Douglas shrugs. ”Drop him of at a shelter, I suppose.”

”What!?” Arthur blurts so suddenly and loudly that Martin flinches. ”No!” He squeezes Martin tighter to his chest, turning away from the older man a bit.

”He watched Lady and the Tramp a few days ago,” the woman explains. ”Lovely film, but not exactly favourable in its representation of animal shelters.”

”Douglas, please! Can’t he live with you?”

”Arthur, someone might be looking for him,” the woman says. What was her name?

”I can make posters!” Arthur promises, his voice heaving with desperation. ”I’ll put them up all over Fitton, and while we wait for someone to call, he can stay with Douglas!”

So he’s in Fitton? Martin hasn’t known until now what the name of this town was. He can’t remember ever hearing of it before.

”Arthur,” the woman says seriously. ”You can’t demand that Douglas let some dirty old…”

”It’s fine, Carolyn,” Douglas interrupts. So that’s her name!

”Douglas, you know you don’t have to indulge him,” Carolyn says.

”I know that all to well. But in all honesty, I wouldn’t mind the company, after all that’s just happened.” Douglas’ voice remains neutral, but Martin can sense a slight sent of sadness from him. Beyond that, he smells of coffee, and spice.

”Oh,” Carolyn says softly. ”I see. If it’s alright, then I guess…”

”Hurray!” Arthur shouts, bouncing up and down a few times. ”Here you go, Douglas. Hold him by the chest and the bottom.” Martin finds himself being thrust into to a different pair arms. These ones are clad in darker, rougher cloth.

”Yes, thank you Arthur. I do know how to hold a dog.” He lifts Martin in front of his face, giving Martin the first good look at his features. Brown eyes and dark brown hair, with a few streaks of grey. ”How odd,” he says. ”Its eyes are _blue.”_

”Is that odd?” Arthur says.

”Yes. I’m fairly sure I haven’t seen a dachshund with blue eyes before.”

”Ducks and what?”

”A wiener dog,” Carolyn clarifies.

”Oh, right.”

”Well,” Douglas says settling Martin in his arms again. ”As much as I enjoy your company, I think I’ll start heading home now.”

When they get to the parking lot Douglas stops for a moment. He glances down at Martin, and then up at the shiny silver car in front of him.

Looks expensive, Martin thinks, even though he can’t remember if he ever knew the brand. 

Douglas sighs loudly, his chest swelling against Martin before sinking again. He pulls a handkerchief out of his trousers, and uses it to wipe of some of the dirt on Martin’s paws, before standing unmoving again, seemingly deep in thought.

”Well,” he says eventually. ”I suppose this is going to need cleaning anyway.” With that, he pulls of his uniform jacket, while still managing to keep Martin in a relatively comfortable hold, and away from his still clean shirt. 

He opens the car-door and places the jacket over the passenger seat, outside up. It already has a few muddy paw prints on it. ”There,” he mutters, placing Martin on top of the jacket. He brings his forefinger close to Martin’s face, and looks him sternly in the eye. ”Now you be a good boy and sit still.”

Martin huffs at the condescending tone.

The drive is short, but Martin still feels his insides squirming by the end of it. His too small to see out the window, and every turn and stop jerks his light body around, even though Douglas is driving quite slowly.

The drizzle from before has let up, and when he’s lifted out of the car, uniform jacket loosely wrapped around him, Martin looks up, mostly out of habit, to see stars. Somehow, it feels like he’s shrinking even smaller, for every second he looks up at the dark vastness. He allows himself to imagine for a moment, what it must be like, to soar through the sky, and look down to see the lights from the countless towns and cities, filled with countless humans (and dogs), all with their own lives and troubles.

Martin lets out a sigh, closes his eyes and snuffles against Douglas’ arm through the jacket.

Douglas shakes him slightly. ”Don’t fall asleep just yet. Not before you’ve had a bath.” His voice is softer now, Martin thinks. There’s no trace of the disinterest and snark from when he was talking to the other two at the airfield.

A bath? It must have been months since that swim in that pond in that park in that city, whatever its name was. The water had been cold and murky, and he probably came out smelling worse than before jumping in, but it had been fun; a bit. The thought of hot, clean water makes him whimper longingly.

Douglas misunderstands and barks out a laugh. ”Sorry, but it can’t be helped. I can’t have you walking about the house covering everything in mud.”

The door opens and warmth wells out, enveloping every inch of Martin’s body. He can’t remember the last time he was this warm, and the sudden change in temperature was almost painful.

With the warmth comes a plethora of smells; coffee and old breadcrumbs, detergent and plain-smelling soap, and _meat sauce._ Martin’s stomach rumbles. It smells a bit like home; home where he lived before he was a dog (he only remembers it vaguely), and it is as if something massive leaves his body with the heavy sigh he lets out. His whole body goes limp, and he truly feels like he could fall asleep right in this moment. Maybe he does, because the next thing he knows, he's woken the sound of poring water. He opens his eyes, but the light is far to bright to keep them open.

Douglas shakes him slightly. ”C’mon, stay awake a bit longer.” Martin opens his eyes, just enough for Douglas to notice.

The jacket is pulled of him and he’s set down in the bathtub. The warm water reaches halfway up his chest and it is more wonderful than he possibly could have imagined. Douglas unbuttons his sleeves and pulls them over his elbows.

Broad hands starts rubbing the dirt out of his fur. Douglas changed the dirty water, and starts lathering him up with heavily diluted shampoo. Martin squeezes his eyes shut to protect them, and Douglas hands stop moving for a moment, and then he chuckles. ”Clever boy,” me murmurs. He’s careful of not getting any lather in Martin’s eyes a he cleans his face.

Silence settles in for a long stretch of time.

Martin is brought back from the brink of sleep, by a warm, bubbling laugh. ”You’re _ginger!”_ Douglas chuckles. ”Didn’t think blue eyes where special enough, did you?” He massages Martin’s ear carefully. ”I’ll bet your name is Clifford.”

Martin can’t roll his eyes, but he can snort disparagingly. As if he has not heard that one before.

”Yeah, that was pretty bad wasn’t it?” Douglas says, still with a bit of mirth in his voice.

Eventually, Douglas takes out the plug, and rinses Martin off, before wrapping him on a fluffy, white towel. ”Now, let’s see if we can’t find you something to eat.”

He leaves Martin alone in the living-room while searching the kitchen. Honestly, Martin thinks, he’s lucky Martin isn’t a proper dog, or he’d probably break something, or pee on something. Clearly, this man hasn’t had any pets before.

Martin sits down on the fluffy carpet covering the middle of the living room, It’s a large, slightly bare room. There’s only a few, unevenly spaced pictures on the wall, and the curtain-poles hang completely bare above the large windows. Martin thinks he remembers that his mother was especially particular about curtains. He doesn’t remember the details or, he realises with a wave of nauseousness washing through his body, his own mother’s name. 

He sighs in lieu of crying, and it seems like the very last bit of energy leaves him with the sigh. He deflates into the soft carpet and closes his eyes. Having opportunity to really think about it (something that rarely presents itself), he realises how much he hates this. His memories of his life as a human are vague, and they keep on getting hazier with every passing day. Hell, he can’t even remember the name of the place he was born! The only memory that remains crystal clear is the day when his life as a human ended.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been nearly winter. The trees had stood bare along the road; people were hurrying along the streets, eager to finish their errands and get back inside, out of the cold.

Martin had just gotten fired from his first job as a pilot, only _two months_ into it. Too inexperienced, his boss had said. Too fidgety and prone to panicking. He hadn’t mentioned the many failed CPL-exams but they were very heavily implied. It was enough to make you tear your hair out!

He hadn’t torn his hair, in favour of getting drunk enough for his failure to get numb, and blurry around the edges.

Just as he was about to order his third pint in the small, murky pub he’d stumbled into, someone sat down at the stool next to him. Feeling emboldened by alcohol and frustration, Martin turned to tell whoever it was to piss of, and that there were plenty of seats open that didn’t require them to rub shoulders with him. The words died on his lips as he laid eyes on her.

It wasn’t that she was beautiful, although she was, but rather something about her that demanded respect, maybe even reverence.

”…hasn’t it?”

Martin blinked a few times. ”Sorry,” he said. ”Didn’t catch that.”

The woman smiled, her green eyes sparkling with mirth. ”I said, it’s been a rough day, hasn’t it?”

”Uhm… Yeah, I suppose so,” Martin mumbled.

”Want to talk about it?”

”No,” he mumbled. ”No, not really.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, and nodded slightly. ”Alright. Then, at least let me pay for that pint for you.”

Martin blinked, leaning away from the woman slightly, as though trying to get a better look at her. ”I- I couldn’t…”

”Please,” she interrupted. ”I’m not flirting with you if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

”I don’t need charity.” Martin couldn’t help but sneer ever so slightly at the last word.

”Trust me, it isn’t charity,” she said, her eyes sparkling again. She tilted her head slightly, letting a few stray locks fall across her cheek. ”Let’s just say I know how it feels to struggle with a dearly held endeavour.”

Martin didn’t bother to try analysing her words, or really, think to hard about anything. ”Okay,” he said instead, relaxing slightly.

The woman looked delighted, and that was almost enough a reward in end of itself. She ordered him a pint of beer. (It had been his favourite, he remembers, even if the brand-name escapes him.)

After he’d taken a few rather large sips, the woman suddenly leaned closer. She grabbed his left wrist, the one of the hand not holding the glass. Their eyes locked and Martin found himself unable to look away from those swirling, green pools. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the noticed that he’d set the pint down.

”What if I told you,” she said, and her voice seemed to echo through Martin’s head, drowning out all other sound. ”That there was a way for you to be free from all the responsibilities and stress that comes with being a human?”

He tried to speak, but found that he couldn’t move his lips, or any other part of his body. Even his mind felt sluggish and misty. All he could muster was a vague thought, along the lines of ‘it’s not as though anyone needs me’.

She smiled at him, and it seemed as if her black hair was spreading across his field of vision. No, he realised as his eyelids drooped. It wasn’t her hair growing, he was simply blacking out.

He heard the woman’s voice in the distance, now free from the hypnotic quality it had had before. ”I think I better find this young man a taxi.”

He’d woken up in complete darkness, laying on top of something hard and flat. For a few seconds he wasn’t sure whether or not he’d actually opened his eyes. He got his answer as the room around him burst into flame. A scream escaped his throat, and he tried to bring his arms up to his face in a vain attempt to protect himself, only to find that he couldn’t move a muscle. The next thing he realised was that the room had, thankfully, not actually burst into flame. The fire was actually innumerable candles, that had all light up seemingly on their own accord.

”There you are.” The voice was coming from somewhere behind him. He tried to move his head, but it was as though his body no longer belonged to him. ”You can’t possibly understand how happy you have made me.” Martin would’ve flinched if he’d been able to move. Her voice was much closer this time; so close that he imagined he could feel her breath through his hair.

”Let me go!” he shouted.

”Oh, don’t worry, I will,” she said softly, moving to the side of the table he was laying on. She was wearing the same clothes she had in the pub. Her hair and make-up were the same too, but still, she looked like a completely different person. The grin on her face filled Martin with an all consuming terror. His blood felt like ice in his veins, and it seemed as if his lungs had shrunk, making it impossible inhale in anything but small, hectic breaths.

The woman brought something out of her coat-pocket; a small, blue poach. She opened it gingerly, raked her eyes across his prone form one last time, before pouring the contents over him.

The dust-cloud sparkled in the candlelight, and he started coughing violently. His eyes watered, and he was convinced that he was going to suffocate. As the world went dark again, he thought he heard her say, ”Always wanted to try this one. Don’t worry, you’ll turn back when you need to.”

He’d woken up in an alleyway, that had seemed oddly large. After having looked down his own body, found a darkened shopwindow to view his reflection in, and spent one and a half hour trying to wake himself up from what he thought was a unusually vivid nightmare, he’d crawled into a cardboard box and fallen asleep. The days and the years that followed had led him here.

– - –

Douglas digs through his mostly empty fridge, and uncovers a plastic box filled with chicken left-overs from the day before yesterday. He finds a pair of old, chipped bowls (the last two of what once was a ten-bowl-set). One he fills with water, the other with the chicken, sans bone and skin (he imagines that dogs aren’t to found of heavy seasoning).

”Clifford! Food!” he calls, opting to use the admittedly silly name, since he has no way of knowing what the dog is actually called. He wonders if it will understand the beckon, or if he’s going to have to fetch it.

After a few moments, he hears the sound of claws clicking against the floor, and he cringes. It’d probably be best if he cut those; surely there would be some site on the internet detailing the procedure?

The dachshund enters the kitchen, its eyes immediately zeroes in on the bowls in Douglas’ hands. It doesn’t bark, or jump, though, just sits down quietly, looking at him expectantly, but still calmly. Douglas lets out an impressed noise.

”Good boy,” he says as he sets the bowls down in front of the dog. It digs in, as though it hasn’t eaten in ages, which might not be too far from the truth.

Douglas watches for a moment, and as he turns to prepare his own meal (pasta with tomato-sauce), it is with a sense of peace that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Just having another living creature around, that requires accommodations and fills the silence with its own noises, is really quite comforting.

Maybe it’s a bit soppy (it probably is, quite a bit), and he’ll definitely be forced to kill anyone who finds out, but he starts talking. He jabbers on about their last flight; how Arthur microwaved his shepherd’s pie until it exploded, his, frankly _marvellous_ , landing in Reykjavik, and the short moment of panic when he and Carolyn thought that Arthur had served hazelnut biscuits to their nut allergic passenger.

It takes him a moment to realise that the noisy gobbling had stopped. He turns away from the worktop to see the little dog sitting there in front of his bowls, food unfinished, and staring at him intently with those strange blue eyes. Behind him, his tails is sweeping back and forth across the floor.

Douglas frowns slightly. It feels as though… No. No, that is completely ridiculous and he won’t be caught even _considering_ it! Still… The dachshund is sort of nodding slightly now, as though encouraging him to continue.

Douglas takes a deep breath, lets it out, turns around, frowns, takes another breath, almost returns to the tomatoes his been chopping. He can’t help casting a quick look around the room, just to make absolutely sure no one is around to hear him make a fool of himself, then finally, speaks. ”Can you… Do you understand what I am saying?”

He feels unbelievably foolish the moment the question leaves his mouth. ”Never mind,” he says quickly, as if that isn’t just as foolish, and turns back to his sauce. He can almost swear that he can hear the dog sigh behind him, but _that_ simply isn’t possible.

– - –

He could have barked, or tried to get Douglas attention in some other way, but really, there wasn’t any point of it, was there? Douglas snatched away the opportunity for showing that he could understand him, and anything Martin does now will be chalked up to him being a normal, stupid dog.

So, he finishes his chicken and water; God knows when he’s going to be able to eat properly again. Douglas settles down in one of the three chairs around the table and eats his own food in silence.

When he’s done, Martin leaves the kitchen without much in the way of acknowledgement towards Douglas. It would have been awfully rude, hadn’t he been a dog. He walks back into the living-room and lets himself fall gracelessly onto the carpet with the greatest sigh he can muster. This would be a good time to plan, he supposes. Now when he is clean and warm and full and (probably) safe, but he finds that he lacks the will to do so; doesn’t want to think about when he’s going to have to leave, and what he’s going to do then.

He hears the sound of a tap being turned on, and the clink of tableware, and a few minutes later, Douglas enters the living-room. He settles down at one end of the sofa, with a sigh that rivals Martin’s own a while ago.

The TV is turned on to what sounds like news. Martin doesn’t really pay attention to what is being said.

After a few minutes of watching the TV in silence, Douglas shifts and lightly pokes Martin with his foot. Martin snorts in surprise and rolls onto his other side so that he can glare at Douglas. It doesn’t have the desired effect, as all Douglas does is laugh.

”You really do look like a sausage when trying to manoeuvre.” Then he pats the sofa beside of him.

Martin considers ignoring the offer, but if there’s anything he learned during however many years it has been, it is to always take advantage of opportunities, because you never know when another one is going to come along, and it would feel awfully, terribly nice to be near another living being (he refuses to acknowledge that he enjoys being petted).

Martin gets up and jumps for the sofa, only to realise mid-jump that it actually is quite high, and that he, with his small stature and short legs, isn’t all that good at jumping. He gets most of his upper body over the edge, and tries fruitlessly to get foothold against the side of the sofa with his back legs. Luckily, Douglas helps him up before he falls on is arse.

”Don’t scratch the sofa! Do you have any idea how much it costed?” he mutters as he places Martin in his lap. He changed out of his uniform at some point in between leaving Martin in the living-room and calling him into the kitchen for food. Now he’s wearing a soft, light-blue jumper and worn jeans.

Warm hands immediately descend upon him, scratch his stomach, behind his ears and under his chin, pets his back and flank, and occasionally gently rubs his ears. All touches are kept slow and soothing and it is utterly wonderful. Most of the world melts away, and all Martin is aware of is that he’s warm and being held. No, he’s also aware of a heart-beat, and respiration that isn’t his own. He can even make out the rushing of blood in veins through Douglas’ stomach.

”Do you know, I think Helena would have lost her mind if she knew I’d let an animal onto the coach,” Douglas mumbles, seemingly to himself. ”But that doesn’t really concern her anymore, does it?” Once again, sadness comes of him in waves, making Martin feel distinctly uncomfortable.

He sits up, so that he can take in Douglas’ expression. The lines in his face have deepened, making him look much older than he actually is. His eyes gleam wetly in the light of the telly, even as he smiles at Martin and pats his head.

Something is wriggling in the back of Martin’s mind. A notions that there is something to understand here, if he just joined the dots together. But he’s far too tired, and his mind too cramped to even attempt it. Instead, he leans against Douglas’ chest, as if he can absorb some of the sadness Douglas is feeling, this way. He can’t speak any words of comfort, so instead, he wags his tail assuringly. Douglas chuckles, and the sound vibrates through him and through Martin, and maybe he smells a bit less of sadness now.

”Don’t you worry about me. It’s nothing I haven’t been through before.”


	3. Chapter 3

Just as Douglas settles into his bed, paperback in one hand, reading-glasses in the other, the dachshund appears in the doorway. ”What? Is the bed I made for you not good enough for you?” He made a sleeping place for the dog in the hallway, out of an old cardboard-box, a pillow and a couple of worn quilts.

The dog wags its tail shyly, and once again, Douglas gets the feeling that it understands exactly what he’s saying. Douglas hesitates only for a short moment. He derives a childish satisfaction from doing things that would have driven Helena up the wall. It’s not her bed anymore, after all.

”Alright,” he says, patting the mattress by his knee. ”Get in.”

The dog takes a few steps backwards and run for the bed. He jumps and manages to crawl onto it without Douglas assistance. When he’s gotten his hind legs on safe footing, he sits up and Douglas thinks he looks quite pleased with himself, but that’s probably just something his reading into him. He remembers hearing something of that effect on QI.

The dachshund pads about for a bit before laying down, curled around itself, head resting slightly against Douglas’ ankle. It lets out a long sigh and its eyelids fall shut, hiding those strangely coloured eyes. Douglas can’t help but smile as he returns to his book. The soothing warmth next to him moves to the back of his mind, but is still ever present.

He reads until the words start floating together before his eyes. A yawn big enough to make his jaw crack escapes him. ”Right,” he says, shutting his book and placing it on the nightstand, ”time to get some sleep.”

But, after he has turned the light of and settled in under the cover, Douglas finds that he can’t seem to relax enough to fall asleep. Reading usually helps him unwind after even the most hectic of days, but now, he’s thoughts are still racing.

For some reason, they race to the one-sided conversation he had had with the dachshund earlier, in the kitchen. He had asked… It had seemed utterly ridiculous at the time, but for some reason, as he lays here in the dark, the question doesn’t seem quite so strange anymore. After all, he rationalises, the dog is strangely calm and trusting for a mutt that has spent God knows how long a time in the streets. 

It can’t hurt to ask, he supposes, aside from his own pride, of course. ”Do you understand what I’m saying right now?” It’s nothing more than a whisper, almost so low that he himself can’t hear it, but he feels the dog move down by his feet, and when he looks down at it, it’s staring back at him, its pale blue eyes glowing like the moon. And, wonder above all wonders, it nods at him.

Douglas inhales sharply. Quickly, he pinches himself in the arm, as hard as he can, and jolts as the pain rakes through him. ”Right,” he breathes.

The dog keeps looking at him, seemingly beckoning him to ask something else.

Douglas inhales again, deeply this time. Calm down, he thinks, as he sits up. He’s ability to stay calm has always been his best quality (well, one of his best; many best). The dog sits up too, its tail wagging back and through like the pendulum on a metronome.

”Do you have a name?” Douglas asks, because it feels like the politest thing to ask at this point.

The dog nods eagerly. It’s a slightly awkward motion; looks jerky and unnatural for a dog, which only reaffirms the notion that this isn’t a normal animal.

”I see,” Douglas says, and thinks for a while. ”Does it start with an A?” He says with some hesitation. God, he feels stupid!

The dog shakes its head.

”B?”

Another shake.

”C? D? E? F? G?” All are met with shakes.

”Right, there must be some better way to go about this.” The dachshund seems to agree, if the impatient twitch of its left front paw is anything to go by.

Douglas gets up, gets pen and paper from the kitchen, and returns to the bedroom, flicking on the light as he passes through the door. The dog watches him curiously as he writes down the alphabet on an A4. ”Alright,” Douglas says, inspecting his handiwork. ”Come over here and show me.”

He lays the paper down on the floor in front of the bed, and straightens to watches as the dachshund slips onto the floor and walks up to it. Carefully, it lifts its front paw and sets it down on top of the M. Douglas repeats the letter out loud to show that he’s got it. The M is followed by an A, an R, a T, an I, and finally an N.

”Martin?” Douglas tries, and the dog barks in confirmation. It – or, he, rather – can’t seem to hold back his excitement, and starts skipping around Douglas, tail waving and tongue handing out.

”Alright, alright, calm down,” Douglas says. He’s starting to get a bit dizzy from trying to follow the dog with his eyes. He decides to throw whatever dignity he has left to the wind, and just try to get some clarity in this, as soon as possible. He kneels in front of the dog. ”Are you an alien?”

Martin the Dachshund shakes his head, and Douglas gets the feeling that he’s looking at him mockingly.

”Well, I have to ask, don’t I? Some kind of secret government experiment then?”

Another head shake.

”Just... _any_ kind of experiment?”

The dog hesitates for a moment, and then nods once, and shakes his head back and to once.

”Sort of?”

Nod.

Douglas thinks for a while, trying to figure out what to ask next in this bizarre game of 20 Questions. The dog, apparently able to detect that he’s struggling, moves back to the paper on the floor.

M. A. _But, I already know your name,_ Douglas is about to say, perplexed. G. I. C.

”Magic!?” he splutters.

The dog nods.

”Do you really expect me to believe that!?”

The dachshund gave him a _look._

”Yes, I do realise that a literate dog is quite weird in its own right, but… _Magic?”_

The dog growls.

”Fine, fine, I believe you!” Douglas says bringing his hands up in a disarming gesture. He gets up from the cold floor and sits down on the bed instead. ”So, what, some wizard enchanted you and now you understand English?”

Martin shakes his head emphatically, and spells out, H, U, M, A, N.

”Ah,” Douglas says, ”and I suppose that only a kiss of True Love can break the spell?”

Martin sends him an absolutely murderous look. It’s hardly threatening, considering his modest size.

”Sorry, sorry! I’ll try to be serious. How _do_ you break this spell of yours then?”

The dog seems to deflate. He shakes his head, and lets out a sigh.

”You don’t know?”

The dog nods, and whines slightly.

”There, there,” Douglas says, and pats the dog’s head without really thinking about it, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind the obviously dehumanising gesture. He actually leans into the touch, eyes closed and body relaxing. ”You’ve come to the right person. I’ve been told that I have a talent for problem-solving. If anyone can figure it out, it ought to be me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter. Sorry, I'll try to update as soon as possible!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DEED IT!
> 
> For some reason, I had a very hard time with this chapter, and that, combined with my computer-problems, meant that this update took far longer than it should have. Thank you for your patience. Hopefully I'll be able to get back to updating with SOME frequency from now on.
> 
> Not Beta'd in the least.

That being said, there isn’t really an established method for figuring out how to lift magic spells, especially when you’ve spent most of your life believing that magic is a thing of fairytales and children’s literature.

Like any rational person would have, Douglas wakes up convinced that the events of the night before were nothing but a dream. But after having spotted the paper with the alphabet written on it, still laying on the floor by the bed, and getting bitten (or ”N. I. P. P. E. D.”, as Martin keeps insisting) in the ankle for having dismissed it out loud, he withdraws his initial conclusion.

There’s no flying scheduled for two days, so Douglas is able to spend the whole day in his own kitchen, staring dumbly at the dog on the floor. He’s tried giving him a peck on top of the head, simply because he can’t come up with anything better to try. The result is as disappointing as expected.

”So you were drugged by some woman in a pub, and she tied you down and threw some powder on you, and when you woke up you were a dog?” he summarises for what feels like the hundred time.

Martin nods patiently.

”Right…” He turns to stare out the window. It hasn’t rained today, but the grey clouds above promises that that may change soon. ”Right…” he says again, feeling unaccustomedly useless.

Douglas has brought his laptop into the kitchen and is currently scrolling through some website about wiccan magic. From the look on his face, he hasn’t found anything promising thus far.

Martin is quickly growing restless. At this time of day, he’s usually prowling the street for something to eat, and while he’s not in the least hungry, it’s hard to shake a habit that’s been all but carved into his bones. He starts walking in a wide, uneven circle around the kitchen to expel some of the pent up energy, but it only seems to make him more restless – and also a bit dizzy.

Douglas glances down on him as he passes by the table for the third time. ”Maybe we should check with the library,” he suggests, snapping the laptop shut. ”This is all utter nonsense anyway.”

Martin perks up at the thought of going outside, and barks in agreement.

Douglas stands looks down at him for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. ”I think we ought to get you a collar,” he says slowly, as though he’s waiting for Martin to protest. ”So no one can mistake you for a stray.”

The idea of being collared doesn’t appeal to Martin in the least, but he can see Douglas’ point, and doesn’t object.

There’s not a lot of people out, probably due to the threatening sky above. The library is only a short walk away from Douglas’ home, and on their way they pass a pet-shop where Douglas enters while Martin waits outside, sitting as still as he possibly can manage. He needs only wait a few minutes, but it feels like longer when you’re expecting someone to, at any moment, chase you of, or throw you into a cage and drive off to the nearest shelter.

Finally, Douglas emerges from the shop, carrying a small plastic bag. He takes out a thin, black collar and put it around Martin’s neck. ”There you go,” he says as he gets to his feet.

There’s still something in the bag, Martin notices, but when he moves closer to sniff it, Douglas pulls it upwards, out of his reach. ”Oh no, you’ll find out soon enough.” That makes Martin worry a bit, but, like it had so many times before, theoretical thinking makes his head hurt.

– - –

Fitton Library isn’t very big, but it does have a relatively impressive collection of old books, in which Douglas is putting most of his hope. Once again, he leaves Martin to wait at the exit. The dachshund seems far more relaxed with the collar around his neck, but he still gives Douglas a look filled with what feels like worry as they part.

”I’ll be right back,” he promises, giving Martin a light pat on the head.

It isn’t until he was only a few steps away from the help-desk Douglas realises that he is about to ask another fully sane adult for a book on witchcraft of all things. He is actually about to make himself out to be a grown man who believes in magic. Of course, he could be looking for that sort of information for a number of reasons, but the first one to occur to anyone would be that he is a crazy weirdo who believed in fairies and wizards.

The young man at the help-desk looks at him with a polite smile, asking how he can be of assistance.

”I was wondering…” Douglas says, pausing to figure out how to phrase his question. ”Do you, perhaps have any books on old myths and magic, and the like.” He’s intently focused on not speaking too quickly or too slowly or in any other way that would make him seem anything but relaxed and casual.

The young man’s smile goes a bit stiff, but he remain professional as he helps Douglas find a range of different books related to the subject of lore. Douglas thanks him and the librarian leaves him alone at a small table, seemingly eager to get away.

Only one of the books had been published later than the 90’s, and the oldest three were from the 18th century. After having skimmed all of the books, and picked out the four that might contain the information he needs, Douglas checks them out and moves toward the exit. But, as he nears it, a lump of ice seems to spontaneously form in the pit of his stomach. Martin is gone.

He walks out into the street, glancing up and down it. ”Martin?” he calls sharply. ”Martin, where are you!?”

A barrage of squeaky, angry barks reaches his ears and he turns to see Martin rushing towards him, a small ball of white fur following closely behind him. The dog doesn’t seem to notice Douglas as he rushes past him, nearly causing him to trip in the process.

“Martin!” he calls but the two dogs have already disappeared around the nearest street-corner.

– - –

Why does these things always happen to him? Martin tries and tries to keep out of trouble, but it seems intent on seeking him out. He was just sitting outside of the library, minding his own, when the dog had appeared out of nowhere. It had zeroed in on him immediately and started barking as though possessed.

It wasn’t the first time dogs reacted oddly to him, but usually they didn’t actually attack him.

Martin looked around, as he rushed down the street, trying to find some way of escaping his pursuer. If only he’d been a cat, he’d be able to climb up one of the trees breaking up the pavement at even intervalls.

He vers of the street onto a smaller one only to find that it is a dead-end. That isn’t such a bad thing, though, Martin has found out throughout the years. This dead-end is particularly filled with junk of various shapes and sizes. Martin makes a B-line for a large cardboard-box. The edge is higher than Douglas’ bed, but Martin throws himself at it without hesitation.

He dents the edge of the box but manages to get into it in one jump. The landing doesn’t turn out quite so well, and Martin can’t help but letting out a small, pained yelp as his paw hits the ground at the wrong angle.

He lays completely still for a moment, listening carefully and barely breathing. Just as he’s started to hope that he’s been able to lose the other dog, something bumps into the box, causing it to skid back a fair distance. The angry barking starts again and he can hear claws scratching against the cardboard.

As Martin could just barely make the jump over the edge while running at top speed, it’s unlikely that the smaller dog will be able to get to him that way, but that’s no use to him if the dog is able to break through from the side.

Martin closes his eyes and tries to remain calm. His leg hurts and his heart is beating painfully against his ribcage and the constant shaking of the box is making him slightly nauseous. But there’s nothing he can do about it other than ride it out and hope that his pursuer will give up soon.

He looks up at the sky for some comfort, but the dark storm-clouds aren’t a very uplifting sight. There’s a certain heaviness in the air, he realises. The heaviness that promises a rainfall.

Barely has he had time to think that before the first drop lands on his nose. He sneezes as the water runs into his nostril, and shakes his head violently. In the next instance, it’s as though someone up there – someone spiteful who, for some reason unbeknownst to Martin, hates him – has opened a floodgate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurray! It's not been unbelievably long since the last chapter!

“Martin!” Douglas cups his hand over his mouth to amplify the sound. “Martin!”

It’s raining far more than what anyone could ever consider necessary and Douglas is glad that they went to that pet-store earlier, since it provided him with a plastic bag to protect the books while he searches for Martin.

He tries a few wolf-whistles, incase Martin can’t hear his shouting, but the dachshund is nowhere to be seen. _Odd,_ he thinks as he jogs the street he saw the dogs disappear down. _Surely they can’t have gotten_ that _far on their short legs?_

Eventually, he has to slowdown to regain his breath.

“Not as athletic as you used to be, huh?” he mutters to himself in-between shaky gasps for air.

He tries to swallow the metallic tang in his mouth and looks around. The raindrops form a curtain all around him, and it’s a bit difficult to see much through it, except…

Douglas squints and peers down the pavement, and there – clearly visible against the gray background – is small blob of white making its way in his direction. As it gets closer Douglas concludes that it is indeed the annoying white dog. It’s looking decidedly less fluffy now, drenched as it is, but not in the least crestfallen.

Douglas down glares at it. “Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

The dog looks at him without any real understanding evident in its snowman-like face.

Douglas sighs and shoos it away. “Run on home before you cause anyone else trouble.”

The dog seems to understand the word ‘home’, and starts on its merry way again the moment he utters it. Douglas spends a moment following it with his eyes as it struts on towards the library.

“Nasty little rat,” Douglas mutters and turns his attention in the direction the white dog came from. At least he seems to be on the right path still. He glances up at the sky above. It’s barely past two, but the already the light seems dim and fading. A shiver runs through his body as a trickle of water makes its way past neckline.

“Martin!” he calls once more as he continues, this time at only a brisk walking pace. As it turns out, it’s a good thing his not running, otherwise he might have missed the low whine coming from a narrow ally-way he passes.

There, in a cardboard-box that’s almost disintegrated from exposure to water, lays a small, pathetic-looking dog. Martin looks up at him with a look of absolute misery, and greets him with a small wave of his tail.

“There you are,” Douglas sighs, sounding a bit more relieved than he’s comfortable with. “So, how long are planing on hiding in here?” he jokes to cover up his overly emotional state of mind.

Martin looks down at his left front leg and up at him again, looking _even more_ miserable than before. He tries to stand, and gives yelps as he puts weight on the left paw, before laying down again.

Douglas’ heart _does_ clench a little at that, but he does his best to hide it. “Not to worry,” he says, carefully picking the dog up.

Martin is shaking slightly and is absolutely freezing to the touch. After some deliberation, Douglas unzips his jacket and tucks Martin against his chest. He immediately feels the cold water from Martin’s fur soaking through his sweater, but tries to ignore it. Martin lets out a halfhearted groan in protest, but Douglas only hushes him.

He zips the jacket up, so that Martin can poke his head out, and picks up the plastic bag he’d placed next to the box.

“Let’s go home.”

– - –

By the time they get back to Douglas’ house, Douglas is the wetter of the two. He sets Martin down on the sofa before disappearing out of sight. Martin’s fur has dried almost entirely by now, and the shivering has long since stopped. If it wasn’t for the constant pulsing ache in his leg, Martin would probably have gone to sleep the moment he curled up on the soft cushion.

Douglas soon returns to the livingroom, dressed in a thick dressing-gown and with two towels in his hand. One he uses to rub the last moisture from Martin’s fur, and the other to do the same thing to his own hair.

“How’s the leg?”

Martin isn’t sure how Douglas expects him to be able to reply, so he just lays there without responding.

Douglas gives him a once-over, before gently grabbing Martin’s injured leg. He moves his thumb over it, and even though it’s nothing but a whisper of a touch, it still causes Martin to whine.

“It’s doesn’t look too serious,” he says as he sets Martin’s leg back down. “It should be fine in a few days, so long as you don’t put weight on it.”

Martin whines pathetically and Douglas pats his flank lightly. “I know.” Although Martin’s not sure how he possibly could. “It will hurt a lot less tomorrow.”

Martin gives him an irritated look. _Easy for you to say,_ he thinks – and hopes he conveys with his eyes – before closing his eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. Douglas rubs his ear before grabbing the towels and getting up.

Martin is unable to fall asleep, what with the pain coursing through his body, but his consciousness does go a bit fuzzy around the edges as he rests. When he comes to, the tea-table has been pulled right up to the sofa, and a pair of bowls have been placed on top of it, close enough so that Martin only have to roll over to lie on his stomach to reach it.

Martin suddenly realises his famished. He moves within reach of the bowls, careful not to put any weight on his injured leg. His about halfway through the spagetti and meat-sauce in the bowl when Douglas emerges from the kitchen, rubbing his hands over the sides of his trousers. He smells a bit of washing-up.

“Ah!” he exclaims with exaggerated surprise. “Are you quite finished sulking now?”

Martin sticks his tongue out at him and Douglas laughs. “How can I argue with that?”

Instead of answering, Martin returns to his food. Douglas sits down beside him and pulls a stack of books out from under the tea-table. “Let’s see then…” he mutters as he puts on a pair of black reading-glasses and opens the top one. “This one’s about some witch that allegedly lived here in the 18th century. It’s a start, I suppose.”

Douglas turns quiet for a long while after that. Martin finishes his food and cuddles close to Douglas, back resting against Douglas’ thigh and legs stretched straight out infront of him.

“Here’s something!” Douglas exclaims. “Supposedly, this lady turned a man into a rat. Not that I am equaling your own noble shape to that of a rat,” he adds as Martin gives a short growl. He starts flicking through the pages. “Doesn’t look like he was turned back, though.” This time, Martin gives no reaction to warrant the next addition. “Well, that was a rat, after all. I don’t expect the same rules applies to dogs.”

Once more, he lapses into silence. At one point, he changes book, and Martin, who’s starting to get used to the pain, is slowly growing bored of just laying here doing nothing.

“Okay, this one is written by some American nutter who believes in magic – well, not more of a nutter than me, I suppose. This…” he leans closer as though his struggling to read. “…is a spell for making animals talk. Not exactly what we’re looking for, but it might be useful.” He pauses as he skims through the text. “Oh.”

Martin looks over his shoulder to see a slightly chocked expression on Douglas’ face.

“Three drops of virgin blood.” He frowns with disgust and flips forward several pages, marking the first page with his finger. “They’re _all_ like this! Virgin blood, blood of an elderly, blood of a _mother of two._ What in the world!?”

Having gotten past the shock, Douglas returns to the original page. “Well, everything else is easy enough, but I don’t know where we’ll find a virgin, much less how to convince them to let us stick a needle in their finger.”

If Martin had been human, he’s sure he would turn beat red at Douglas remark. Either he has forgotten more than he thought, or he definitely hasn’t… Well, he’s not about to tell Douglas – even if he could (he can’t really communicate through the ouija board at the moment, what with his injured leg).

A sudden knock on the door brings the two of them out of their contemplations. Whoever it is, they keep knocking arrhythmically against the door until Douglas makes his way out in the hall and opens it.

Martin can hear a very chipper voice coming from the hall, and recognises it immediately. “Hello, Douglas!” It’s Arthur.

“Arthur,” Douglas says dryly. “Whatever brings you to my doorstep?”

“I wanted to come and check up on the duck-dog. Is he here?”

“Where else would he be?”

“I don’t know, I thought you might have left him at the S. H. E. L. T. R.” He lowers his voice as he spells out the last word, as though he’s afraid someone might be listening.

“At the sheltrrr?” Douglas echoes, rolling the ‘R’. “Well, I can put your mind at ease, dear Arthur. I have never, _for one moment,_ considered to leave Martin at a _‘sheltr.’”_

“Who’s Martin?”

“Ah, apologies. That would be our four-legged friend from the airport.”

“You named him! Oh that’s brilliant, Douglas! Martin is an absolutely brilliant name! Although I would have gone with Clifford.” Martin can hear the two of them moving in his direction.

“Why am I not surprised?”

The two men comes into the living-room and Arthur immediately goes to kneel down by the sofa. “Hello, Martin! My name’s Arthur. Do you remember me? We met yesterday – at the airport. I’m a steward at GERTI – that’s our aeroplane.”

“Arthur, don’t bother him. His injured.”

“What!?” Arthur gasps, looking up at Douglas with wide, childlike eyes.

“He hurt his leg.”

“Oh, no! Poor doggie.” Arthur runs his hands over Martins neck and back with clumsy yet gentle touches. Martin can’t help but being slightly impressed – as well as concerned – by how quickly Arthur goes from sunshine cheeriness to absolute devastation. He spends quite a while petting Martin and looking at him with sad eyes. To the point where Martin starts to feel a little bit awkward.

– - –

“Why’d you name him Martin?” Arthur asks eventually, sounding incredibly subdued (for him, at least).

Ah, well, there’s a dilemma for you. Douglas doesn’t doubt that Arthur would find it easy to believe in the existence of magic or humans being transformed into animals, but the young steward is rather famous for his chattiness and inability to keep a secret. The last thing Douglas wants is for word to get out that Sky God Douglas Richardson believes in magic, and he can’t see how Arthur knowing would be in any way useful in this situation. Really, it isn’t a dilemma at all.

“I don’t know,” Douglas says with a shrug. “He just looks like the Martin-sort, I suppose.”

Martin looks at him with a look that his difficult to decipher, mostly because there’s only so much you can discern from a dog’s face. Douglas decides to set it aside for now. He realises that there might still be another away for Arthur to be useful.

“Say, Arthur,” he prods, plopping down on the coach beside Martin. “How are things going with the young lady with the fish?”

“Grizelda?” Arthur asks, attention focused on scratching Martin’s ear. “She’s brilliant!”

“I guessed as much.” Douglas pauses for a moment. It feels unbelievably weird to even contemplate Arthur’s awareness of sexual matters. “And you’re enjoying your time together.”

“Well,” Arthur paused, looking slightly confused, “yeah, obviously.”

“In the bedroom as well, I assume?” Douglas cringes inwardly. God, that’s an image he doesn’t want in his head. Still, one of Arthur’s best qualities is that you can ask him just about anything and getting an honest answer.

Arthur looks at him with a slight furrow between his brows and Douglas is starting to worry that he’s going to have to be even more blunt. But in just a moment, the steward’s face lights up in understanding. “Oh, yeah! She’s _brilliant_ at sex! The other day, she…”

“I truly don’t want to know,” Douglas interrupts.

So much for that. Douglas shrugs it of and grabbs the book and his glasses where he left them on the sofa. There might be something he missed.

Artur doesn’t seem to hurt by Douglas distaste. He just shrugs and returns his attention to Martin, who looks increasingly uncomfortable with being the target of Arthur’s undivided attention.

“Douglas,” Arthur says softly.

“Don’t bother the poor thing too much,” Douglas says without looking up.

“Douglas, do you miss Helena?”

Douglas nearly drops his book in surprise. He looks down at Arthur, still kneeling infront of Martin, but looking up at him with an open, empathetic expression. He looks a lot like Violet did when she found out.

“I pride myself on not being the sort of person who lives in the past.”

“You sound a bit like mum, you know.”

“That’s not something people like to hear, Arthur.”

Martin is watching both of them intently, but Arthur doesn’t notice. “When she and dad split up, she was very angry, but also sad – although she tried to hide it. It’s okay to be sad, though. Sometimes life is difficult, you know.”

Douglas was about to retort with something snarky, when he senses Martin looking at him with equal parts confusion and concern. “I’m not sad,” he says to both of them. “I don’t need anyone to pity me.”


End file.
